leave . . . ,â she says and waits.
âDonât dance,â I finish.
âAnd when it is the time to dance . . .â
âDonât leave,â I say.
Edie tilts her head sideways. âAh, thatâs sweet, but Iâve really got to go.â
We both burst out laughing, and Edie gives me a little wave as she steps away.
Keithâs smiling until we turn and head for the closest trash can. âWhat was so funny?â
âItâs a math joke.â
âThereâs no such thing,â he says, and then just stops and stares. For a second I wonder if Treat is here, but Keith mouths,
Astrid.
He forces the cups in his hand onto me, then turns around and walks away.
Astrid gets to the trash can right when Iâm tossing in the cups. âWe have to stop meeting like this,â she says.
âYeah,â I say and nod once like that means something.
She smiles, drops in a stack of cups, smacks her hands together like sheâs dusting them off, and walks away, the bandana swaying as she goes.
Keithâs waiting for me by the big exit doors. âShe smiled at you.â
âTo keep from laughing.â
âNo.â Keith shakes his head. âShe saw you in your cool new clothes.â
He must be razzing me. âNo one said we looked cool.â
âWe talked to girls. We danced with girls.â Keith squints the way he did when Mr. Krueger asked him what
Fr
stood for. âThatâs what we want, isnât it? The experiment is a success.â
Hey, Neighbor!
O ne of the things I tell Uncle Ryan in the next letter is how having a huge friend with a Mohawk will probably come in handy at school, but maybe it isnât the best idea to let my parents meet him.
Especially my dad,
I write.
You know how he is when things donât go to plan, and I donât think he planned on me having weird friends.
I write about the Howdy Dance and feeling stupid in front of Astrid because Uncle Ryanâs told me before that we all do stupid things sometimes. âMe more than anybody,â he said once, and I remind him of that.
After that, itâs just a bunch of crap about Brendan getting in trouble at school, and Colleen already loving her new teacher, and Mom saying the tomatoes here are terrible and having great strawberries and oranges doesnât make up for it.
I know what I want to write next, but Iâm not sure if I should. In the newspaper the other day, there was a family special on baseball tickets to see the Angels. Even though they were playingCleveland, I told my dad it would still be great to go. He said he didnât have time and I said that if Uncle Ryan were here heâd make time. âWell, Uncle Ryan isnât here,â my dad said. I probably shouldâve shut up about it right there because when he says something without looking at you heâs either not really listening or heâs trying not to get upset. âItâs not like itâs against the law to have fun in California,â I said, and that was it. I got an earful about how life isnât fun and games all the time and if I thought it was, all I had to do was take a look at Uncle Ryan and I could see how that turned out for him. He stopped right there, real sudden, and looked at me like Iâd just called him out at home when everyone else in the world could see he was safe. âI didnât mean that the way it sounded.â He waited a second, said, âLetâs just not talk about Uncle Ryan, okay?â and then left the room.
Uncle Ryan used to get an earful sometimes too, my dad telling him thereâs a time to have fun and a time to grow up and isnât it about time he grew up? I figure Uncle Ryan doesnât need any more of that coming through me, so I leave out all the stuff about the ball game and what my dad said.
I wish you were here,
I write instead,
or that you could write back, but Iâm pretty sure you
Learning to Kill: Stories